


Friends In Low Places

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Conversations, Bars and Pubs, M/M, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Somehow, Ratchet had never considered that courting Drift would mean putting up with Deadlock's old war buddy--who now has a significant other of his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Empire of Stone, after "Past Lives" and after "Playing With Fire." 
> 
> Takes place during the beginning of MTMTE 50, "The Dying of the Light."
> 
> Literally the only way to fit my two favourite ships into the same story without carnage. :D
> 
> The Decepticon war blessing is shamelessly borrowed from Bruce Springsteen and the title is shamelessly borrowed from Garth Brooks.

_Friends In Low Places_

Ratchet didn’t respond. He just kept walking, shoving his way none-too-carefully through the crowd of patrons clogging the tavern. They were all mechanical and more or less his size, but he and Drift were the only Cybertronians in the place.

Or so he’d thought until a moment ago, when he’d heard a voice calling out a name. A name that was all too familiar to the Autobot medic.

“Hey,” Drift said, keeping pace with him at his side. Drift did not appear to have heard the voice, because his entire focus was on Ratchet. “What’s the hurry?”

“Changed my mind,” Ratchet grunted. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Drift’s face fell. “But you said this was the best compromise.”

It was true. Ever since the war, Cybertronian commerce with Van Dorzen’s Moon had fallen off substantially. Most of the establishments that Ratchet had frequented four million years ago had closed. Of those three that were left, neither the low-end nor the high-end places would do.

The low-end place was out for the obvious reasons: any galactic crossroads inevitably attracted its share of scum, and if Drift was serious about giving up killing, Ratchet didn’t want him to go somewhere where his newfound resolve would be tested. Not to mention that a bar fight wasn’t Ratchet’s idea of a good time.

The high-end place, Ratchet had discovered, wouldn’t work out either. They’d tried it yesterday, on their first night here. That was when Ratchet had found out that even though Drift had more than enough credits to afford to patronize a classy establishment, he’d never developed the mannerisms that would allow him to fit in with the regular clientele. He stood out, and he felt awkward and uncomfortable, even though Ratchet had asked for a corner booth—the better to hide them both. Ratchet wasn’t going to put Drift through that humiliation again.

So it looked like _The Last Best Place_ was their best refuelling option, except that Ratchet hadn’t bargained on crossing paths with another Cybertronian.

More specifically, another Cybertronian who recognized his companion. Ratchet accelerated, watching the exit door, praying the other mech had given up…

The stranger’s voice boomed out again. “Hey! _Deadlock_!”

Ratchet had never once considered the possibility of a _social encounter_ with one of Drift’s old associates. 

Drift’s face took on an expression of alarm. He leaped forward, but Ratchet saw, from the corner of his optic, a taloned hand closing over Drift’s left shoulder. Drift spun around from the force of his own momentum, and Ratchet turned with him, ready to do whatever it took to defend his companion. What that would be, in a crowded tavern filled with bystanders, Ratchet feared to think.

But the stranger didn’t seem angry to see Drift. Quite the opposite. His lips parted in a big smile, flashing a pair of impressive fangs.

Ratchet was glad the other mech seemed happy, because he wasn’t looking forward to fighting him. The stranger was _big_ , and the Decepticon insignia prominently displayed on his chest made no secret of his loyalty. Ratchet noticed claws and feathers and a set of beast wings, all hinting at a transformation into some variety of terrible creature. As if that wasn’t enough, the Decepticon had seen fit to outfit himself with an animal-shaped helm, including a second set of optics, a curving beak that cast his primary optics into shadow, and a colourful crest in red and gold. He was altogether a monstrous sight, and Ratchet couldn’t help but feel an uncomfortable churning in his fuel tank at the prospect of taking on such a nasty-looking customer.

“Hey _yourself_ ,” Drift said, looking for all the world as though he was overjoyed to see the big Con, and reminding Ratchet once again how well the kid could maintain his façade.

“How’re you doing, you old Pit-spawn,” the Decepticon said, slapping Drift on the back. “Glad to see you’re not dead.”

“Likewise,” Drift replied, warming up a little, while Ratchet stood in stunned silence and wondered how to react.

Ratchet had to admit that they were still pretty far out on the galactic rim…out where communications with Cybertron were sporadic at best. Was it possible this Decepticon didn’t know that Deadlock had defected to the Autobots? Did the stranger even know that the war was over?

The Con chuckled and put his arm around Drift’s shoulders. “I haven’t heard anything about you in a good million years. Really thought you might’ve been a goner. Come over here and I’ll buy you that drink I owe you.”

Drift cast a desperate glance over his shoulder at Ratchet. “Uh…I…I’m with someone,” Drift stammered.

The Decepticon paused. Looked around. His gaze fell on Ratchet, then dropped to Ratchet’s Autobot insignia. All four optics widened. The Con looked back at Drift questioningly.

Drift shrugged. “Hey. War’s over.”

The big Con snorted. “Fine. Bring your friend.”

It looked as though the stranger wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and Ratchet guessed that Drift had chosen to play along rather than provoke a fight in the tavern. Still, Ratchet felt his fuel pump knocking as he followed Deadlock and the stranger to a reserved booth in a quiet corner of the tavern. He had no idea how to politely socialize with a Decepticon.

The booth formed a semicircle around a round table. The big mech slid into the booth, moving to the middle, sitting with the wall at his back. Drift sat on his left, with the other wall behind him. That left Ratchet to take the right side—the side with his back to the room. It was how he usually sat with Drift. Drift always needed his back to the wall. It seemed as though the big Con did too. Ratchet tried not to stare at him as he eased into the booth on the Decepticon’s right side.

“Uh, this is Deathsaurus,” Drift said to Ratchet from across the table. “We did a couple joint missions during the war.”

Deathsaurus held out a taloned hand.

“Deathsaurus, this is Ratchet.”

Deathsaurus’s optics widened. “Ratchet, as in, _Autobot Chief Medical Officer_ Ratchet?”

 _Slag_.

Ratchet hated to think about it, but he was considered a high-value target. Bludgeon had taught him that lesson—the hard way. Ratchet might not be a general or a warrior, but his skills made him valuable to the Autobot cause. Worse, he was a known friend of even higher-profile Autobots like Optimus Prime, and Decepticons like Bludgeon had not been shy about exploiting those affections to advance their Cause. If Ratchet were to be kidnapped, the Autobots would not simply leave him to his fate.

Ratchet stared at Drift in abject horror.

But Drift had the situation well in hand. “ _Pfft_ ,” Drift said, barely containing his amusement. “You think the Chief Medical Officer is going to be running around the Rim with _me_?”

Deathsaurus threw back his head and laughed and laughed. 

A moment later, Ratchet joined in the chuckling. Privately, he was astounded how easily the lie had slipped from Drift’s lips.

“You know what they say,” Drift added with a grin. “All the best names are taken.”

“Mine wasn’t,” the Decepticon said slyly.

“Maybe not,” Drift countered, “but there aren’t that many people who can pull off _Deathsaurus_.”

Ratchet tried hard not to snort. A savage name for a savage mech.

“So, Deadlock,” Deathsaurus said. “Where’d you meet your new friend?”

Drift looked back at Deathsaurus, the picture of innocence—if _innocence_ were a hardened Decepticon killer. “ _Old_ friend, actually. He had a clinic in the Dead End before the war.”

Deathsaurus looked at Ratchet again and raised an optic ridge. “Is that so,” the Decepticon said thoughtfully, looking Ratchet over with new optics. “You’ve got no issue with treating people like us?”

“Decepticons?” Ratchet asked carefully.

“I was going to say _cold-constructed_ but yes, we’ll go with Decepticons.”

Ratchet shrugged. “War’s over.”

Deathsaurus didn’t do a double-take, so Ratchet guessed he’d heard that news from Cybertron, even if rumour of Deadlock’s defection hadn’t reached him. “Indeed,” Deathsaurus said slowly. He glanced back at Drift, who read the question on his face.

“No reason not to reconnect now,” Drift said casually.

Deathsaurus’s gaze dropped to Drift’s chest, where his Autobrand had been. Ratchet guessed that Deadlock had worn his Decepticon symbol in a similar location. “Your badge is gone.”

“And yours isn’t,” Drift retorted. Ratchet could see Drift falling back into his old habits. When threatened, he went on the offensive. “I heard you quit.”

“I didn’t _quit_ , I _left_.”

“Same difference, isn’t it?”

“ _Hardly_.” This seemed to be a point of pride with Deathsaurus. 

A waiter-bot came by, bearing a tray with pre-poured mugs of energon and engex, as well as a drink menu. Ratchet decided to take advantage of the convenience and accepted a mug of the engex on tap. He was going to need it to deal with his present company.

Drift, unsurprisingly, took the plain energon. Drift wasn’t exactly a teetotaller, but he consumed intoxicants sparingly, and never in a public place like this where he felt he always had to be ready in case a fight broke out. Ratchet noticed that Deathsaurus did the same, and wondered if the big Con’s reasons were similar. 

_Who would be hunting a monster like that?_

Drinks in hand, Deathsaurus elaborated on his earlier statement. “I _left_ Megatron. I left his command because, to put it bluntly, his command was _stupid_. He was asking me to risk my soldiers’ lives on missions of dubious value to the greater Cause. Why should we fight and die on the front lines to occupy a planet that we would simply abandon once we’d won it? Why should we charge Autobot strongholds when Megatron had plenty of superweapons that would do the job for us? Die because he couldn’t be _bothered_ to provide us with adequate support? I think _not_.” Deathsaurus slammed down his drink, crossed his arms and stuck his beak into the air. 

Ratchet didn’t want to admit that he was intrigued by the Decepticon’s rant. He ought to be dismayed to realize that this was the warlord they called the Emperor of Destruction, but he couldn’t help himself. Monster though Deathsaurus might be on the battlefield, he seemed to have a strong set of ethics. 

Deathsaurus continued, “I will _not_ ask my crew to do anything I won’t do myself. When _they_ go to battle, _I_ go to battle—from the _front_.” He smiled suddenly. “That’s what I liked about you, Deadlock. You understood that.”

“I don’t understand why you’re still wearing that badge,” Drift pressed.

“Ah. Because I left _Megatron_. I didn’t leave the _Cause_.” Deathsaurus wrapped his talons around his mug. “Out here on the Rim you meet all sorts of organics who would love nothing better than to wipe mechanicals off the face of the galaxy. _Machines_ , they call us. They even say we don’t have _souls_ , which is _foolish_ —I can open my chest panels and _show_ them, but they don’t understand.” His optics flashed. “Beings who won’t even kill other organic creatures to feed themselves somehow think it’s perfectly acceptable to inflict every degree of atrocity upon beings like us. As though our nature makes us incapable of pain. Or grief.”

Well, so much for ethics. “Surely…” Ratchet reminded himself to tread carefully. He was acutely aware of his Autobrand and recognized the danger in debating a Decepticon. On the other hand, he’d never had such an opportunity before to understand what drove the people Drift had once associated with. “Surely all organics aren’t so bad?”

Deathsaurus snorted. “Forgive me if I’ve been too busy trying to keep my people alive to learn how to make friendly overtures to aliens.” 

Drift said slowly, “They aren’t that different from us where it counts. They want to live their own lives, decide their own destinies, seek happiness, feel safe. I understand the need to use force to protect your people, but surely…surely there’s a difference between defending yourself, and being the aggressor that other species need to defend themselves against?”

Deathsaurus snorted. “Perhaps.” After a pause, the Decepticon offered, “I suppose I can tell you two that right now, sacking organic planets isn’t high on my priority list.”

“Oh?” Drift asked noncommittally. 

“I, ah…” The big Decepticon ducked his head under his wing, as though to shield his face, and Ratchet was fascinated to see such a monstrous looking mechanism acting _shy_. “I have an alliance,” Deathsaurus said in a low voice.

Drift peered up at him. “I’m guessing not just business.”

“I _hope_ not.” Deathsaurus swirled the energon in his mug, playing with it to keep his hands busy. “I mean, we’re carrying out a joint mission but… Look, at first I said yes because we needed credits and fuel and…well, honestly I thought we’d be safer if we cooperated rather than fought…but now…” Deathsaurus breathed deeply through his vents. “We work well together. I mean, _very_ well.”

“How do you play together?” Deadlock gave Deathsaurus a suggestive waggle of his optic ridges, shocking Ratchet with his boldness—but of course, Deadlock had been all about his facades, feigning a delight in all manner of depravity that he didn’t truly feel inside.

Ratchet stared in fascination at the sight of a Decepticon warlord blushing.

“Hah, I thought so,” Deadlock— _Drift_ —said with a smarmy grin. “When your mission’s done, you grab that mech and carry him off somewhere.”

Deathsaurus’s face fell. “It, ah, it might not be that easy.” He tinkered with his drink. “I…sometimes I think all he cares about is his ex, and…”

“This ex still flirting with him?”

“Ignoring him completely.”

“Were they good together?”

“ _No._ ” Deathsaurus seemed adamant on this fact. “Charming someone into a relationship and enabling a stack of bad habits is not the same as caring about him.”

“Then take the offensive,” Drift advised. “You’re a warlord. You’ve got this.”

“I hate to admit that I might be out of my league against…” Just then, something warbled the first few notes of a song Ratchet recognized as a Decepticon battle anthem. Deathsaurus glanced over at him. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

Ratchet moved over to let Deathsaurus out of the booth. The Decepticon stood back a few paces, which was as close as he could get to privacy in the crowded bar. Deathsaurus pressed the comm link button and his whole demeanor changed. “Hellooo?” the big Decepticon purred into the speaker.

Drift looked at Ratchet and mouthed the word _boyfriend_.

Ratchet couldn’t hear the voice at the other end. He could only watch Deathsaurus’s reactions to whatever was being said. Ratchet guessed that Deathsaurus was pleasantly surprised to hear from whoever-it-was.

Deathsaurus paused. He laughed. “Yes, I’m just messing with you. I know it’s you.” His voice grew conversational. “Something on your mind?”

That was an awfully friendly tone for a Decepticon warlord to have with an officer. Drift was right—it was Deathsaurus’s love interest on the other end. 

“What, already?” Deathsaurus sounded disappointed. “We just got here.”

Drift frowned. “Leaving so soon?” 

Deathsaurus didn’t hear him. His attention was fixed on what his caller was saying. “Oh. _Oh_. Well, that’s convenient. A lot better than fighting our way onto…yes, I understand. I’ll be back on the ship in five kliks. Tell Esmeral to recall my troops immediately. We’ll fly back to the Warworld and oversee the departure preparation. As soon as all my troops are on board, the hunt is on.” Deathsaurus lowered the comm link. “Sorry. I’m afraid duty calls.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Ratchet said, gesturing towards his shoulder badges. “As a medic, I understand.”

Deathsaurus was on the verge of saying something when the comm link crackled. “Hm?” Deathsaurus lifted the device and listened to his caller. “Oh, I…I met up with an old friend planetside. We were just sharing a drink and… _no_. No, _nothing_ like that. Just an old war buddy.” His wings twitched. “Are _you_ all right?” Pause. “No, don’t you try that on me. _Honesty_ , remember?”

Deathsaurus snorted. “Well, you’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time…there’s always a certain, I don’t know, a certain _anxiousness_ when the moment finally arrives? That instant where you know that if you don’t change course immediately, from then on you’re committed?” He rose to his feet and began pacing next to the table. 

“No, I’m not questioning you, I just thought…” Deathsaurus sighed. “Listen. You and I, we’re in this together, okay? No matter what. As long as you and I are together, we can handle anything. Anyone. It’s…” He drew air in through his teeth. “Unity is strength. United we’re unstoppable.”

It was kind of sweet, Ratchet thought, in a terrible, Decepticon kind of way.

“Listen, take care of yourself and I’ll see you soon. I…” Deathsaurus lowered the comm link, looking disappointed, as though the person on the other end had cut him off. 

He turned back to the table, bracing his hands on the desktop. “Sorry to run out on the two of you. Drinks are on me.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Drift said warmly. “I’m just glad I got to see you. Alive. At liberty. And with all your limbs intact.”

“Don’t be so smug. Youur name was on top of mine.” Deathsaurus and Drift smirked at a joke Ratchet didn’t understand. But Deathsaurus’s smile faded before Drift’s did.

Deathsaurus looked around the room conspiratorially, leaned in and said in a low voice, “Let me make a suggestion.” He described the location of his Warworld and its planned route, and then he added, “I _strongly advise_ you and your associate head in a different direction when you leave here.”

“How come?” Drift asked the question that was on Ratchet’s mind.

“Because my new partner and I are looking for trouble and, as a friend, I’m telling you that you don’t want any part of it.”

“Sounds interesting,” Drift said, obviously fishing for more information.

“Sounds like _none of our business_ ,” Ratchet retorted.

Drift’s face fell, but Deathsaurus grinned. “Listen to your friend, Deadlock. He’s a wise mechanism. And not so bad, for an Autobot.” 

“Yes,” Ratchet teased. “Listen to your big blue war buddy.”

Deathsaurus rose from the booth. “It’s a shame to cut this off, but…my partner is really in a hurry to get going. It was good to see you again.” He paused. “Stay hard, stay hungry…”

“Stay alive if you can,” Drift answered, and Ratchet realized that their words were some sort of Decepticon blessing.

“Nothing’s managed to kill me yet,” Deathsaurus answered with a smirk. He waved, and headed for the door.

“Well, that was interesting,” Ratchet said as the big Con paid their bill at the bar and left. Ratchet glanced at his companion. “Drift, what are you doing?”

Drift had finished his energon and was in the process of chugging the half-mug that Deathsaurus had left behind—once a guttermech, always a guttermech. Ratchet was used to Drift’s inability to abandon perfectly good fuel. What he didn’t know was why Drift was suddenly in a hurry. 

“Let’s follow him,” Drift suggested. “I want to see where he’s going.”

“Didn’t he just tell us that he’s going to look for trouble?”

“Yeah, but did you see the look on his face when he was talking on his comm link? All misty optics and big goofy grin?” Drift paused, practically wriggling with excitement. “He’s _in love_ , Ratchet.”

“Lucky him.” Ratchet supposed he could manage to feel happy for the Decepticon. Deathsaurus might be lucky, but he wasn’t as lucky as Ratchet. Ratchet, after all, was the one who’d be taking Drift home tonight.

“I want to know who with,” Drift declared.

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “Never saw you as the type for gossip.”

“It’s not like him, Ratchet. His evasiveness. Deathsaurus was…Deathsaurus is a real straight-shooter, says what’s on his mind. Me and a lot of other guys liked him because we could trust him not to keep secrets from us. Other mechs hated him because he didn’t like their style and he’d say so to their faces. This secrecy now, it’s weird. Deathsaurus should be up on the bar hollering to the whole crowd that he’s in love with whoever the lucky mech is. That’s what I’d expect of him. Not this coyness.”

Ratchet snorted. “Maybe it’s an Autobot.”

Drift glowered. “I’m serious, Ratchet. I want to know.”

Ratchet looked down into his mug, sighed, and gulped down the last few swallows. They had a ways to go to intercept the _Lost Light_ ; if this was how Drift wanted to spend their shore leave, Ratchet would play along. Except…

“We’re not getting involved in Deathsaurus’s trouble. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Ratchet stood up, Drift followed him, and together they left the tavern.

There was no sign of Deathsaurus outside. Ratchet shuddered. Nobody that big should be able to move that fast. “I think we lost him, kid.”

Drift’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, well. I guess we should be going on our way anyway. The sooner we leave, the sooner we find the _Lost Light_.”

“The sooner _I_ get up on Swerve’s bar and holler to the whole crew that I’m in love with you.”

Drift punched Ratchet’s shoulder. “Oh, you would _not_.”

But the shimmering in his optics suggested to Ratchet that Drift would like it very much if he did. And though Ratchet considered himself a bit old for such shenanigans, he supposed he could tolerate a little razzing if it would make Drift smile. On the spot, Ratchet vowed to do it.

They converted to their vehicle modes and drove to the spaceport. Ratchet noticed that Drift cut his speed in order to keep pace with Ratchet, so that Ratchet wouldn’t have to strain himself to keep up. Ratchet admired the sleek sports car cruising comfortably next to him and felt all over again that he was far luckier than he deserved to be.

Right up until they entered the spaceport and a dark shadow passed overhead.

Instinctively, Ratchet turned hard right to take cover in the nearest ally, a narrow corridor between two warehouses. Drift was right behind him. Ratchet changed shape and looked up, hand over his optics as he watched the ship lift into the sky.

“Is that…” Ratchet’s voice broke off, because of course he’d never actually _seen_ the _Peaceful Tyranny_ before. The rumours were vague enough that almost any Decepticon ship could fit the description, and if Ratchet thought he’d seen the name painted on the ship’s nose, well, that was just his imagination anticipating what it thought it would see.

“Can’t be,” Drift said, and Ratchet shivered, because Drift was apparently imagining the same thing. Drift transformed, thinking out loud as he did so. “Deathsaurus is on the List. They say his name’s right under mine. They say….”

“Right.” Ratchet tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s afraid of the DJD, right?”

“Yeah.” Drift forced a weak and obviously fake smile.

“Want to play the old game?” Ratchet asked.

“Grab your friends…”

“And run like hell?”

“Yes.” Drift wasted no time in agreeing. “Yes, I do.”

Ratchet grabbed his hand, and together they ran for Drift’s shuttle. 

Ratchet realized, belatedly, that the ship which probably wasn’t the _Peaceful Tyranny_ was heading in the direction Deathsaurus had said he was going. Ratchet had never been more grateful to take a Decepticon’s advice. He wasn’t sure if Deathsaurus was aboard that ship or not, willingly or otherwise, and for the sake of Drift’s old friend, he wished the big blue Decepticon well. For his part, he was happy to fly the other way. He—and Drift too, he was sure—would be perfectly fine living the rest of their lives without ever crossing paths with the DJD.

And then the communicator on his hip began to buzz with an urgent transmission.


End file.
